The Watchmaker's Son
by Tabitha Hope
Summary: Gabriel Gray is only 17 and has no idea what he will become. But when fate leads Hazel Reed to his clock shop, will the two find peace together, or will Gabriel's increasing desire for power destroy them both? Rated M for future content.
1. Chapter 1: The Clock Shop

**The Watchmaker's Son**

**Chapter 1: The Clock Shop**

"Okay, turn around!"

So we did. We were facing an incredible four-story brownstone row house. Tall brick walls and handsome black iron fences framed steep stone stairs leading up to the porch. There was a hanging basket of peonies above the front door.

"Well, what do you think?" Mom grinned at us.

"It's..._nice_," I tried, but I don't think I sounded convincing. Don't get me wrong, the house was beautiful. But I felt uneasy.

"Mom, can we really afford this?" My sister Bryony read my mind. After Mom and Dad split up last year, we could tell she was unstable. We moved to a flat on the other side of Chicago, miles away from our childhood suburban home. But Mom wanted – needed – a fresh start. Apparently, Brooklyn is the perfect place to do it. So here we are, standing up at our new, expensive home. Summer had just begun, and the trees that lined the street were a rich green.

As I stepped through the front door, I felt a shiver run up my spine. The hall was long, dimly lit, claustrophobic. I wanted space. The stairs creaked and the banister wobbled slightly as I touched it. The grey beige paint was cracked and chipped. My room – or at least, the room that had a note tacked on the door with _HAZEL'S ROOM _scribbled on it in purple marker. Inside was my bed, bookshelf and side table, safely delivered, doors that I later discovered opened up into a closet on one wall, and pile upon pile of cardboard boxes. I groaned. After an early start and a long, cramped ride in the back of our Volvo, all I wanted to do was crash. But I couldn't with all this mess. I had to organize everything, otherwise my blood would boil over. Reluctantly, I staggered over to the nearest pile and reached for the first box.

Half an hour – and about ten boxes – later, I was doing a pretty good job. I was more than halfway through, and my bedroom was beginning to look more like, well, a bedroom. On my bedside table was my lamp and radio-slash-alarm-clock and my current read (Bram Stoker's _Dracula_; I always make sure I have a book on the go) and my bookshelf was, of course, crammed full of books, but there were also a few bits and bobs on the end of the shelves. The music box my Grandmother gave me for my fifth Birthday sat proudly on the top shelf, and a figurines and little toys dotted the lower levels. My old rug, which I found rolled up at the bottom of the last box, now decorated the floor – though years of dust and dirty feet had faded the colours, it still managed to brighten up the room. The paint was the same colour as the hallway and just as chipped, and the floorboards were dull and dusty. There was also a hole in one of the boards near the bookcase which I would plan to get fixed later. I took a big sigh, put my hands on my hips and stepped back to admire my work. Finally, things were starting to look more...normal? Maybe not completely. But the closest I would probably get to having my old life back.

I've never resented my Mom or my Dad for splitting up. Maybe at the beginning, but as the months past, though it hurt, I accepted there was no way I could truly have my old life back. Still, that doesn't mean I can't miss it, right? I wish things could just go back to that way they were. I want my old house back, I want to hang out with Hayley and Ally and Dan and I want to be happy.

By 5 p.m. I had unpacked everything, including several pictures of me and Bryony with Mom and Dad when they were still a happy couple, which I hid in my side table because I knew both of them would get upset if they saw them. My collage I had made with my friends was up on the wall. It was nice to be able to still see Hayley's short blue hair, Dan's attempt at growing a beard, Ally's smile. I'd also put up my mirror. I glared into it, and my tired reflection glared back. My long, dark hair was matted and greasy, I realised I hadn't had a shower in two days. There were dark circles under my eyes (which are, yes, you guessed it, _hazel_); nor had I managed to get more than three hours' sleep.

I went to bed at seven. We'd ordered Chinese, since we were all so tired. I ate and watched _Gilmore Girls _until I couldn't keep my eyes open, then eagerly said goodnight. I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.

The next morning, I realised I had slept exactly twelve hours, and for a moment I thought I was back in Chicago, but then I remembered I wasn't. I was in Brooklyn.

After dragging myself out of bed, I dragged myself over to the window. Beyond the curtains were storm clouds and damp, humid air. Not the best weather, but the house was really the last place I wanted to be. If I was going to at least give Brooklyn a chance, I had to explore. As I turned away from the window, there was a knock on my bedroom door, and Mom poked her head round it.

"Hey, honey," she smiled. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah, like a log." I grinned. "What's the plan for today?"

Mom paused for a second. "Why? Want to go sightseeing?"

"If it's okay with you."

Her eyes were heavy and tired, but she always tried to mask them with a smile. "Sure, Hazel," she said, and retreated downstairs.

The next thing I really wanted to do was take a shower. The bathroom in this house was long and narrow. The floor tiles were slate grey, and the walls were covered in the same beige, chipping paint as the rest of the house. I undressed and stepped into the green bath tub. With the press of a button, torrents of warm water encased my body. It was a wonderful feeling. As I washed my hair I could feel all the dirt and grit rushing towards the drain. I stepped out feeling all fuzzy and refreshed. I wrapped my hair in my towel, walked back to my room and changed into jeans and a tank top.

Then made my way to Bryony's room next door. She was sitting in bed playing on her pink Gameboy. Bryony is twelve – four years younger than me – but is probably just as mature as me. She also has a fiery temper – that girl knows how to project her voice.

When she spotted me, she put her game on pause and climbed down from her bunk bed. When we were both small, we used to share it (and I had the top bunk) but once I began my growth spurt, we had to be separated. "Morning," she yawned. I've never been allowed in her room once it was all hers -- the one time I tried when I was thirteen, she screamed in my ear to _GET OUT _and pulled my hair -- so I stayed put in the doorway.

"Sleep okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, I guess." We stood in silence for a while. Both of us wanted to ask, but neither of us knew how to do it. Then, "Hazel...do you miss Dad?"

"Do you?"

"I don't know. Is it bad to say that?"

"You can think whatever you want to." Bryony and Dad had been really close. He would drive her to soccer practice on Wednesdays after school and buy her ice cream afterwards. She was afraid to show it, but I could tell she was shook up. This had been really hard for her.

"Pancakes on the table!" Mom shouted from downstairs. We leaped for joy and stampeded down the creaky stairs, rattling the banister as we ran out hands down it. Pancakes were our favourite.

Once my stomach was full of sugar and syrup, I set about packing for my expedition. Up in my room, I grabbed my backpack and looked around for things to put in it. Wallet, definitely. I had twenty dollars in there which could prove handy. Walkman? Sure. One thing I enjoyed almost as much as reading was putting my legs on auto and cranking up Nirvana. I then spied _Dracula _lying on the side table, and decided I might as well take that too. You never know when you might need a good book. As I walked over to pick it up, I forgot about that hole in the floorboards. My left foot got caught, and I was sent flying into my bookcase. Only a couple of books were knocked to the floor, but then I heard a horrible _crunch!_ and looked to see my music box lying on its side. The lid was open, and to my horror, two cogs had come loose and were lying nearby. "Crap!" I cried, and gathered it up. I loved my music box. I never found out what song it played, but whenever I opened the lid, the beautiful music would calm me down when I was angry, or cheer me up when I was upset. I considered calling for Mom, but she'd probably freak. OK, be rational. There must be a repair shop somewhere. People break stuff all the time. I put the music box in my backpack, and the cogs in my jeans pocket.

Outside, the air was heavy, the clouds low and black. I made my way down the road and could have sworn I heard a faint rumble of thunder that crept closer. I turned the corner and groaned. All these streets looked the same. I turned left after a quick _eenie-meenie-miney-mo._ I followed the road down and came to a crossroads. I went right. While Kurt Cobain blasted feelings of pain and angst, the rain finally began to fall. It came in torrents, like my shower that morning. All of a sudden the pressure in the air seemed to lift. The anticipation of rain must have been building up for days, and now the spell was broken. It was then I realised I had forgot to pack an umbrella. My body was getting soaked. I broke into a run.

This was when I found the shop. It was on the street corner, the walls painted black. On the shop window was a clock face. Below that was stenciled _'Grey & Sons'_ in fancy, hard-to-read writing. Inside, there was antique furniture everywhere. Clocks graced every table, cabinet, desk, wall. A dark figure moved towards the back of the room. A music box _does _work kind of like a clock, right? I took a deep breath and pushed open the door. A little bell rang as it creaked open. That's when he looked up from his work desk.

I will never forget his face. He couldn't have been much older than me, but through his multilens glasses his dark eyes conveyed such maturity, and perhaps a sorrow, that I had never seen before. They were framed by thick, black eyebrows. His face represented one going through that awkward phase -- too old to be a boy, but too young to be a man. His hair was combed over to one side, and his red checkered shirt buttoned all the way to the top. Yes, he looked like a nerd. But I like nerds. "Hello," he said.

"Hi," I replied, when I finally got round to opening my mouth. "I was wondering if you could help me." He stood up as I approached and removed his glasses. For a moment, I forgot why I was here and just stared helplessly into his eyes. "Oh, right." I opened my back pack and revealed my broken music box. "I was wondering if you could fix this? If it's not too much trouble."

"Let me have a look," he said, and took it from me. He held it as if it were made of gold. "A music box works the same way as a clock. This shouldn't be too hard." he paused, and looked at me. "There are two cogs missing."

As I fumbled through my pockets, I felt his eyes lingering over me. "Here they are." I held out my hand, and as he took them, his fingertips grazed my palm, sending tiny electric shocks through me. He looked them over, then retreated back to his desk. "This should be ready in about half an hour."

I glanced reluctantly out of the window, where it was still pouring. "Uh.." He looked up in question. "I don't have an umbrella." _And I look like a drowned rat._ "I don't suppose it's okay if I just stayed here?" I spoke slowly and cautiously. He looked like the type who preferred to be alone. I was expecting for him to refuse, tell me he had a lot of work to do and I would just be a nuisance. But then he pulled up a stool next to the desk. I crept over, thanking the lord for packing my book.

With what sounded like several hundred clocks ticking in the background, reading was hard. I couldn't concentrate well. Carefully, I glanced over at the young watchmaker, who obviously seemed to be doing fine. I wondered whether I could strike up a conversation – if I could work up the confidence to – or whether he was too submersed in work, and actually didn't really want me here but felt he had to oblige because I asked. Then he began to turn to look back at me, and in a split second I turned back to my book and concentrated very, very hard.

It went on like this for ten minutes. I'd look up at him, but when he tried to look back, I went running for the hills in the pages of my book. Sometimes I could sense him watching me, but when I looked up, he was immersed in fixing the music box, licking his lips in concentration. Then, finally, "Bram Stoker's _Dracula_?"

I looked up at him, and this time he didn't turn away. My heart fluttered as his eyes pierced mine. "Yeah," I breathed, almost a whisper. "I like books." God, I sounded like an idiot.

"I admire people with power like that," he said quietly.

At the time, I didn't realise how much he meant that. At the time, I was just happy that we were discussing book characters. I could feel myself becoming more confident; I was in my element. "Only he wasn't a person, he was a vampire." I replied. "But at times, I kind of feel sorry for him. Does that sound stupid?"

He raised one eyebrow, and a small smile (or was it a smirk?) lingered across his lips. "What's your name?"

I think my heart just skipped a beat. "Hazel. Hazel Reed."

"Gabriel Gray," he said.


	2. Chapter 2: An Unexpected Invitation

For those of you who have actually decided to follow this story, sorry for the delay and the fact this chapter is kinda short. I guess coursework creates stress which creates writer's block. And yes, I am trying to make a metaphor by comparing Sylar to Dracula...please don't strangle me for it because it's silly.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

As the rain continued to pelt down outside the shop, our discussion continued. As I became more comfortable – and I was amazed at just how comfortable I was talking to a guy I had only known for half an hour – I could feel Gabriel loosening up too.

"So you feel _sorry _for Dracula?" he chuckled. "Humour me. Why?"

"Coming from the guy who 'admires his power'?" I smirked. He didn't answer...for a moment, I swear I saw anger flashing in those dark eyes of his. Somehow, it frightened me. I moved on. "Did you know he's supposed to be a representation of what was believed to be a foreigner in those days?" I said. "He was feared just because he was different."

"He was feared because he killed people." Gabriel added.

"Forget it," I said, turning away. "It's silly."

"No it's not."

"Fine," I sighed, trying to hide my beetroot-red cheeks with my (for once convenient) curtains of hair. "The book's never from Dracula's perspective. That seems a bit unfair. Also, we never know about his past. I wonder...if he's ever experienced love." I forced the words out, and waited for him to laugh at me and send me out into the rain for being such a dork. When all was silent, I added, "I mean, before he became a vampire."

I watched as Gabriel sat back in his chair and pursed his lips in thought. His answer made me dizzy. "Have you ever been in love, Hazel?"

"N-no," _Because having a crush on a guy you've known for less than an hour doesn't count, does it?_

"Then how can you feel sorry for him when you yourself have never experienced it?" Damn, he was good. He'd left me speechless. Now it was him who was smirking at me.

The next few minutes were spent sitting in silence. I didn't know whether to feel embarrassed or annoyed. In the meantime, perhaps it was time Gabriel got on with some actual work. He balanced his glasses on the end of his nose and focused on the music box. It was a medical procedure, the cogs were organs that had to be implanted carefully. He was so precise. Every piece mattered and it was crucial that no mistakes were made. As he inserted the last remaining cog, the whole room seemed to wait with baited breath. But no sooner had he began, the music box was complete. He leaned back in his chair with a small, satisfied smile.

"All done," he sighed, cracking his knuckles. I shuffled over and picked it up. It looked as good as new. The smooth cream fabric that covered it hadn't been damaged at all, nor had the stitching on the tiny embroidered flowers that dotted it been snagged.

"Wow, Gabriel," I smiled, and his name rolled softly over my tongue. "This is amazing!"

"It's a beautiful music box," he replied. "You should open it to make sure it works."

So I did. I remember when I was little, how I thought there was a tiny man sitting at a tiny piano somewhere in there, and he knew whenever I opened the lid and began playing my favourite melody. Somehow, the rhythm of the song and the ticking of the clocks all around the room seemed to fit together. The rain outside played a sad duet. "Wonderful," I heard Gabriel whisper.

The song ended, and the room seemed to snap out of its calm, dreary haze. Slowly and carefully, I closed the lid.

"Oh! How much do I owe you?" I asked, suddenly realising that I obviously had to pay the guy. "I have a twenty...is that enough?"

"Actually, for this I'd say around thirty." Gabriel smirked. I must have been wearing a look of absolute horror, because he then added, "But I guess I could accept twenty for now. Just come back later and pay me the rest then or something."

Did he just invite me back?

"Is that really OK?" _Don't question it, just take the damn offer_. I put my book and my good-as-new music box in my backpack, brought out my wallet and gave Gabriel my twenty. "Thank you," I added meekly. As I turned for the door and a bleak outside, I heard him get up from his chair and walk over to a closet in the corner next to the desk, where he brought out an old, black umbrella.

"It's a bit battered, but it works," he said, holding it out to me. He looked away as I took it, adjusting his glasses. "Return it when you come back."

Suddenly the rain didn't seem so bad. My hand rested on the brass doorknob as I braved a quick glance back. There he sat at his work desk, just as he was when I came in. The shop smelt like old books. Slowly I opened the door and ventured back into the outside world.

I still wonder what was going through Mom's head as I walked through the front door that afternoon. The rain and the humid air hadn't helped my hair and clothes dry much, I was carrying an umbrella that wasn't mine, and I think I looked too starry-eyed for my own good. I was still trapped in a hazy dreamworld full of clocks and antique furnitures and watchmakers. She stood in the hallway wearing tattered overalls splattered with orange paint. The radio was on at full volume on the second step of the stairs, and scraps of newspaper were scattered around on the floor. The walls were slowly transforming into an endless sea of orange. It hit me then that our house was like a new project, like a pottery class or a homework assignment. All to take her mind off Dad. She must have bought the paint tins that were stacked to one corner that morning.

"Hey Hazel," she waved an orange hand, gripping her paint brush with pride. "Did you have a good time?"

"Of sorts," I said.

Mom cocked her head to one side. "Where's the umbrella from? It's not one of ours, it's falling to pieces." she took a step forward. "Give it to me and I'll throw it in the trash for you."

I took a step back. "No," I said quickly. Then I paused. Mom is one of those Moms who wants to be their daughter's best friend, wants to braid her hair, give her a makeover, talk about boys. I am one of those daughters who just wants some piece and quiet. I wasn't about to tell her I met a boy and squeal until my eyeballs dropped out. "I just found it on the sidewalk. I know it looks battered, but it kept me dry...for the most part." I glanced down at my sodden clothes. "Can I go change?"

Mom nodded, but something in her eyes told me she knew I wasn't giving her the full story. She always knows.

Upstairs I discarded all my wet clothes into the laundry basket, took my backpack and Gabriel's umbrella to my room and changed into my pajamas. I figured because I knew I wasn't going anywhere for the rest of the day, there was no reason to make an effort. I tied my hair into a ponytail and carefully pulled out my music box from my backpack. I couldn't help it. I had to see. Inside, it was as if it had never fallen or been broken in the first place. It might as well have been new. But _he _had fixed it...now I had to pay him back, sooner rather than later. Suddenly I found myself pondering when to go back. Tomorrow would make me seem desperate, but leave it too late and it would be too weird to just waltz in. Perhaps the day after tomorrow, then. And should I bring lunch, or would that be uncool?


End file.
